


Iniquity

by prettycallous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Babysitter (Netflix)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, F/M, Horny Teenagers, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, No (Y/N) or Acronyms, One Shot, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Spanking, Step-siblings, Super Rich Kids, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-05-30 06:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15091421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettycallous/pseuds/prettycallous
Summary: Things escalate when your stepbrother visits over a holiday weekend.





	1. Temptation

####  **Good Friday**

“Who's that?”

Eyes trailing up from your book to your friend, you notice that she's looking at someone across the school grounds. You turn your head in the same direction and sigh when you see the subject of her question.

He's easy enough to spot with his broad figure towering over the candy red sports car he's leaning against. Expensive sunglasses rest on the strong slope of his nose, black mirrors sweeping and seeking. The spring sunlight brings out streaks of chocolate in the dark hair tousled around his ears and when he pulls a hand through the thick tresses, you hear her breathe a husky, “God damn…”

Your eyes almost roll out of your head at her comment. You shut your book and tuck it away in your bag, getting to your feet.

“That's Ben. I gotta go,” you finally mumble and start down the concrete steps.

“H-hold on!” she whisper-yells as she hurriedly gathers up her things and follows. “You didn't say he was so _hot!”_

“Fuckin’ hell, Bea! Don't be gross,” you admonish and scowl at her in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“What? He's not _my_ stepbrother,” she replies with a smirk. “You should introduce us already.”

“BYE BEA,” you dismiss her as you walk briskly away.

She calls your name after you, saccharine and teasing, “My love! Let me know if you want me to come over this weekend!”

Yeah, no. You don't need her ogling your gorgeous stepbrother while he's visiting for the long weekend. Only you get that privilege. 

You continue across the verdant school grounds toward Ben, trying not to feel self-conscious with how he's watching you approach. You can't see them but you just _know_ those intense brown eyes are on you. He always has something to say about your school’s pseudo-Catholic uniform and you suddenly regret how disheveled you probably appear in your wrinkled short-sleeved dress shirt and loosened tie.

Your anxious heart is pounding as you try not to stare and you feel like a hypocrite for chastising Bea. He looks like he belongs on the fucking cover of _Vogue_ _Italia_ or something with the way his arms are folded over his broad chest, legs crossed at the ankles as he leans against the coup-style vehicle. Thick pecs and firm biceps are straining against his cream-colored polo which, for some obnoxious reason, he has completely unbuttoned. His posture draws too much attention to how his jeans pucker at his groin and a brown belt encircles his slim hips, pairing nicely with the dark wash denim jeans fitting over his long legs.

No, he’s not a magazine cover. He's hot chocolate syrup drizzled over a sundae, or ice cream melting over warm apple pie. Casting your gaze around at the other girls heading home, you notice that you're not the only one who wants to lick him up.

Ben's stupidly plush lips part into a grin once you're close and he unfolds his arms as he steps toward you.

God no, he's going to hug you. You cannot let that happen—you will absolutely go into cardiac arrest. You give him a wide berth as you walk to the passenger side of the car and mutter without looking at him, “Hey, thanks for picking me up.”

“Uh, yeah! No problem, little sister,” he replies after taking half a heartbeat to recover from the snub.

Sliding into the black leather interior, you set your schoolbag at your feet and buckle your seatbelt. Your hands are clenched in your lap with your bare thighs pressed tightly together and you look straight ahead as Ben joins you inside the car. It's fragrant and cool in here and you really appreciate the dark tinted windows on such a warm day.

“Did you have to bring the Corvette? You're kind of making a scene…”

As if your schoolmates are gawking at the car.

The sun-kissed Titan chuckles and revs all 455 horses in the powerful engine, looking pointedly at you from behind his shades. You bite your lip and exhale slowly through your nose as you ignore his stare, eyes on the dashboard. If he does that again, you're going to leave a puddle.

“Making a scene? At this snotty-ass school? Nobody gives a shit. There are more expensive cars in this parking lot,” he says as he guides the Corvette into the queue of cars leaving campus. “Look, there's a fucking 12 year-old getting into a Tesla.”

Your eyes follow his jerking thumb and you can't help but smirk. Chase Calrissian is your age but she looks younger than she is because of her small stature. She's definitely shutting herself inside a shiny new Tesla. Must be a graduation present.

Finally escaping the school grounds, the car roars a little too quickly down the road due to Ben's lead foot and you’re reminded of that statistic about red cars and speeding tickets. You know better than to say anything, however, and just steal glances at Ben's profile. He's glancing at you, too, and eventually clears his throat along with the growing awkward silence.

“You're gonna change before dinner right?” he asks unnecessarily.

There it is. You don't understand his dislike for skirts. It makes you a little sad because you think you look great in them.

“No, Ben,” you grump, folding your arms under your breasts. “I'm going to the Michelin Four Star restaurant in a school uniform I've been sweating in for eight hours.”

He chuckles and brakes at a red light, turning to you, “I just mean—well, it's a little short, isn't it? Doesn't the dress code say skirts should stop about here…?”

Ben extends his fingertips to draw a slow line over the delicate skin just above your knee. The warmth from his hand travels straight into your panties.

“Y-yeah and it does _when I'm standing up,”_ you hiss as he withdraws and faces forward again.

The smirk on his lips nearly boils your blood, so you retort petulantly, “And I'm wearing a dress to dinner that's even shorter than this.”

Wolfish. That's the word that comes to mind when you notice his smirk spread into a sharp-toothed grin. Oh, how that grin makes you want to do bad things with him. This really is going to be a long weekend.

You’d rather broach the taboo subject than have your mind wander down that route. “So, how many speeding tickets did you get on your way up here?”

Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment at you. “O ye of little faith. I can smell a speed trap from a mile away. I even made it here in record time—two and a half hours in this baby.”

And, as you expected, this launches him into rambling like a car salesman about the Corvette’s finer details and how it's soOoo much better than other luxury cars on the market. He segues into complaining about how somebody called “Hucks” is butchering these beauties with ridiculous modifications and you have to fight to swallow a yawn. Operation Extinguish Libido: Successful.

“You really are your father's son,” you groan, reminded of how Han also talks your ear off about cars _at least_ once a week.

“Yeah and with our powers combined we'll soon bring you to the dark side, my sweet widdle sister,” he baby-talks at you and reaches over to playfully pinch the fat in your cheek.

You bat his hand away and turn your scoff to the forested landscape blurring by the window. “I'm only, like, three years younger than you! Cool it with the big brother act.”

One year. You've officially had a stepbrother for exactly one year today, though you've known _of_ him for as long as Mama and Han have been together. Han spoke about Ben a lot over the past eight years, but because his mother had custody you didn't interact with him very often. In fact, the wedding was only the third or fourth time you had ever met the kid and— _damn!—_ he had changed from that awkward and gangly teen from years prior. His wiry frame had filled out with muscles and he grew his enviously thick hair longer to sweep the tops of his over-large ears. The cocky wit that you once found annoying was downright _charming_ in his deepened voice. By the time he asked you to dance at the reception, you were in trouble.

You were crushing on your stepbrother. _Hard._

For weeks after the wedding, you fell asleep to thoughts of his hot cocoa eyes and how he held you against his hard body as you danced. You tried not to indulge in these musings but, frankly, how could you not? Eventually, it become a nightly habit for you to cry Ben's name into your pillow as you quietly climaxed on your fingers. As a distraction, you threw yourself into your studies during your final year of high school and made yourself scarce the few times he came to visit his father. Your RBF and prickly personality were cranked to eleven to keep him from getting close.

Strangely, Ben was eager to befriend you. He would text you memes and comment on your Instagram stories. He even invited you to his 21st birthday months back. Mama denied permission to attend in her usual overbearing fashion and not even Han could convince her to relent this time. She didn't think it would be prudent for you to party with newly-legal drinkers— _“There's definitely going to be alcohol, Han!”_ —not knowing that you've already done what she was afraid of and _worse._ But you were secretly grateful for the excuse not to go. Your Drunk Self is too amorous and surely would have done something mortifying.

“How do you do that?” Ben's muffled voice muses from the other side of the window as he peers into your vacant eyes, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. “Just...fall asleep with your eyes open? It's fuckin’ creepy.”

The car is already parked in the driveway and you blink out of your memories, embarrassed and a little stunned at how far you drifted off on a daydream. You grab your bag and climb out to join Ben on the pavement. Your eyes try not to linger on how his thick arm is flexing under the weight of the weekender bag slung over his shoulder.

“S-sorry, I was just...thinking about some stuff,” you say as you move past him and onto the porch.

He laughs. “Yeah, no shit. I hope it wasn't about how you forgot to get ‘em an anniversary gift.”

“Hardly,” you gripe as you unlock and push the front door open. “Mama's been dropping hints about this stupid wine aerator thing for weeks.”

The house is dark and silent aside from your combined footsteps shuffling over the threshold. You're home alone with Ben, it seems. Shit.

“Where….uh, where are they?” you ask, trying to keep the nerves from altering your voice as you peek into the empty sitting room.

Ben closes and locks the door behind him—a perfectly innocent thing to do, but the implication of privacy sends your overactive imagination to dark places.

“Didn’t Dad text you? Said he took your mom to a movie before dinner. They'll meet us at the restaurant.”

Great.

“Okay...I'm, uh...gonna go get ready then.”

You plod up the steps, patent leather Mary Janes scuffing along the woolen runner, only to stop halfway up and turn around once you hear heavy footfalls trailing after you. Of course, Ben is smiling good-naturedly up at you.

“What? You're not gonna show me to my room?” he asks with a glint in his eye. “What a shitty hostess.”

“You already forgot where the guest room is, old man?”

 _I'm not showing you anything but my closed bedroom door because after tonight I'm going to lock myself in my room until your dumb beautiful freckled face is out of my house,_ you grumble internally and continue up the stairs. 

It takes a moment before you realize that you _are_ actually giving Ben a show.

Glancing down at him over your shoulder, you catch him in the act, his amber eyes flitting quickly from your skirt to your face. A shadow crosses over his features as your eyes lock and all you can focus on is the sin that starts to burn in your blood. You slow your steps and face forward again, hips swaying in exaggerated motion as you're suddenly possessed by wickedness. You can practically feel Ben's gaze lick its way up your backside as he gets an eyeful of your cotton panties. It feels _delightful._ The energized air thrums with the pounding of your synchronized footsteps as you both ascend to the second story.

Stopped on the landing, the creaking of wood bowing under weight ceases. He's still below you a step or two and the height difference is no difference at all here; the hairs at the back of your head are fluttering on the breeze of his exhalations. Within a tense moment, his strides devour the distance between you and the scant space between your bodies becomes nothing—but they're whisper-light, the points of contact between you and him.

You stand tense with your hands clenched in your skirt, anticipating...something.

His chest kisses your back. His crotch grazes your hip. His vascular paw skims over the swell of your ass. His steady breath fans across your skin as his body brushes up behind and then past yours, but your head is the axis upon which his eyes and face turn. The Sun around which his heavenly body must orbit.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs dulcet words as he crosses in front of you and finally pulls his eyes away.

Launching off to his quarters, he leaves your orbit lest he inadvertently circles close enough to burn to ash. You wait for the door to click shut behind him before you will your quaking legs to carry you to your own room. Slowly, the outside world filters back in and clears your ears of the sound of blood rushing to your southern bits. The door closes as you press your back into it. Knees giving out, you slide your bottom to the floor and your hand into your panties in a desperate attempt to sate your improper lust.

You're not going to make it to Tuesday with your soul intact.

-*-

Silence stretches long and awkward between you, eventually spurring you to switch on the radio. A female vocalist starts softly crooning about “shit she can't forget”. How appropriate. You also can't forget how Ben felt brushing across your body or how he was close enough for his scent to caress your nose. You nervously lick your lips and glance sidelong at the brunette driver, the glow of his phone casting cerulean over his features in the evening gloom. Unlike earlier, he doesn't seem to be in any rush and is actually driving close to the speed limit. You're not sure if he feels uncomfortable on the dark and unfamiliar roads or if he's trying to draw out the length of the drive.

“Shit,” he curses as his phone loses signal and thus GPS. “Do you know what street it's on? Was it Washi—”

“Washington, I think. Yeah,” your voice joins his, a little wrinkly from disuse.

It's the first time you've spoken since you emerged from your respective rooms and he told you that you looked nice without even really looking at you. A weirdly subdued compliment from the normally verbose Ben. Nervously, you tug on the hem of your cocktail dress and finger the lacy embroidery. A quiet Ben is usually an unhappy Ben. You wish you had the courage to ask if he’s mad. You didn't technically _do_ anything but it’s obvious that what happened on the stairs has changed something between you.

Ben spots the appropriate street and pulls in front of the rustic-looking restaurant. Nestled between a Neiman Marcus and a Red Door Spa, the hand-painted calligraphy above the awning reads “Vincent's”, illuminated by warm spotlights. There's cast-iron fencing on either side of the entrance’s giant oak doors, overgrown with potted and flowering greenery. A sharply-dressed valet approaches with a smile as Ben exits the car. 

He leaves the engine running and the door open, not sparing a glance at the young man or you as he strides toward the entrance. You scramble to collect the gift bags and your purse to hurry after him, tossing a quick _“thanks!”_ to the confused valet, trying to stuff down the indignation of Ben's sudden rudeness. He seems to remember his manners at the door and holds it open for you to pass through. You give him a small smile in thanks but he's still not looking at you.

“Welcome to Vincent's!” the pretty hostess chirps at the pair of you. “Just two this evening?”

Blood rushes to your face as you stammer, “Ha! N-no, uh no. We're looking for a party…? Um, Solo?”

As she checks the seating chart, your eyes roam the moderate dining area, drinking in the finely dressed and happily chattering patrons. There's a mural along the eastern wall, painted in the style of a Roman mosaic, depicting an extravagant feast hosted by the God of Tits and Wine himself, Dionysus. Seated near the mural is a scruffy-looking man gesticulating wildly as he spins a (doubtfully true) tale for his two companions: a woman with shoulders shaking in mirth and a hulking figure with his back to you. Your heart leaps at the sight and when the hostess beckons for you to follow, you can hardly keep at her slow pace.

“Uncle Chewie!” you screech and drop your inventory to throw your arms around the wild-haired man. They barely connect at your fingertips due to his bulk.

“Ah!” he gruffs in surprise and stands to crush you in his arms with the strength of a wookie. “Hey there, little one!”

“Damn, you've stolen my uncle, too?”

You stiffen at Ben’s tone, but when you turn to face him he's grinning.

“Nonsense! There's enough of me to go around, Big Ben. Come ‘ere!” Chewie booms and gathers you both in an awkward group hug.

You struggle to get free, laughing, and make your way around the table to greet your parents.

Your lips meet a powder-smooth cheek in a loving kiss. “Happy Anniversary, mama.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” she smiles hazily up at you, obviously tipsy already. “I love your dress! Where did you get it?”

You roll your eyes at her lame joke. She’s always treated you like her little porcelain doll, dressing you up in frilly outfits since infancy. Tonight is no different. She’ll probably continue to buy clothes for you until you're back in diapers.

Another kiss to a grizzled and grey cheek. “Happy Anniversary, papa Han.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he rumbles, liquor-pinkened face growing pinker. “Here, have a seat!”

He moves to pull out the chair next to him, but you leave that chair for Ben and sit on the opposite side of the round table between Mama and Chewie instead. Watching as Han and Ben embrace, you note the similarities between father and son. The same long, sloped noses. Hooded eyes that crinkle over lopsided smirks. Han has gotten soft over the years but he still carries a formidable figure even as an inch shorter than Ben.

You remember happily riding the shoulders of that figure in the dawn of his relationship with your mother when he successfully won your childish heart with toys and candy. In your youthful naivete, you hoped Han would replace the man who created then abandoned you, but those first few years shattered the illusion that adults were equal to superheroes. Han could never hold onto money because he always seemed to owe it to the shady people who financed his doomed get-rich-quick schemes. It became an exhausting cycle of Han disappearing as he chased a pot of gold, reappearing without a penny in his pocket but contrition on his lips, and Mama forgiving him, bailing him out, and then _kicking_ him out when he refused to change his ways.

In your early teens, you urged her to shut out the man who continued to break both of your hearts and she almost heeded your advice. Until Han returned from his longest “business trip” yet with a ring and a promise. You watched Mama cave yet again with a scowl. He _was_ different, though. He started work as a freight driver to clear his debts and—with Uncle Chewie’s help—actually stayed on the straight-and-narrow to finally make good on his promise to you and your mother.

By the time the wedding rolled around, he had won you back over to his side. Your heart was mended with string and duct tape, but so far it was holding. It certainly helps that Han is able to loosen up your normally uptight mother. You’re a teenager with a life to live, after all.

“So!” Han grins and claps his hands together once the waitress leaves with your orders. “Did you tell Benny the good news, kiddo?”

Oh jeez. You lower your head self-consciously. It’s cute that he's playing the part of proud papa, but—

“It's really not a big deal,” you mumble. “...I was accepted into Yavin University.”

Three adults softly cheer and clap at the announcement, even though it's not news to any of them. Ben's eyebrows raise in piqued interest as he lifts a wine glass to his lips.

Mama isn't going to let you be modest. “Aaannnd…?”

“And Aldera—”

“Alderaan Academy!” she says merrily alongside you. “Which is the obvious choice since it's so close to home.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Alderaan Academy is also a great school, but that’s the one downside to attending: you'd still be living at home. If you stay here you feel like you'd be missing out on the full college experience. At Yavin you could finally, _finally_ get out from under Mama’s thumb to live the co-ed experience for the first time since elementary school, make your own choices and mistakes, get a chance to explore the city...but Yavin also comes with a downside. And he was looking at you from across the table.

“Aren't you gonna major Poli-Sci?” Ben asks and you nod. “If you come to Yavin, I can see about getting you an internship.”

You gape at him, eyes wide. “At the senator’s office…?”

Ben is smirking at you, heedless of the suddenly tense mood at the mention of Han's ex-wife. Han’s eyes are downcast as he scratches the back of his neck. Mama knocks back the rest of her wine. Chewie coughs for no reason.

“Just something to think about,” Ben shrugs.

The mood lightens again when the food arrives and you wait until everyone is elbow deep in their meals before you nonchalantly reach for the wine bottle. Nice try, but even when tipsy your mother is a hawk who swoops in at the slightest hint of fun. She slaps your hand and you jerk away with a shrill cry. Why did you sit next to her again?

“Don't think so, young lady!” she slurs. Hypocrite.

Han the Hero, the Legend, comes to your defense. “Aww c’mon, princess! Let the kid have a glass; it's a celebration! She's technically an adult anyway.” He's already pouring you a healthy amount of the burgundy spirits.

Mama relents—flustered by the nickname, she's trying not to grin too hard—and holds her own glass out for a pour. “Oh, fine...but _just one!”_

You exchange a look with Han and he winks. How could you ever think ill of this man? Cheers, papa.

As dinner goes on, Han orders another bottle of wine and you're able to sneak another glass and a half. You're no lightweight but this is some excellent goddamned wine. Your head is buzzing pleasantly by the time the gifts are unwrapped and you laugh way too hard when Ben's present is revealed to be a clone of yours: a wine aerator. Time feels like it’s skipping because you're suddenly being guided back into Ben's Corvette as he murmurs “I've got you” and shushes your loud, drunken questioning.

Shit! Blackout territory already? Your mother is going to murder you or worse: _ground_ you. You pray that you were able to keep it cool at dinner, but you're kind of panicking in your doubt.

“Mammmma!” you whine and clutch Ben's arm as he settles into the driver’s seat.

“Uh no, sweethea—”

“Does’she know?!” you manage to slur and shake him a bit too forcefully.

“What, that you're fucking blitzed off only two glasses of wine? I doubt it…” he mumbles with a shudder. “She seemed...preoccupied.”

A hazy memory surfaces of Han whispering in Mama’s ear and peppering occasional kisses on her cheek. She giggled behind her hands like a schoolgirl.

“EWWWWW!”

“Shhh! Jesus, you're a loud drunk.”

He takes off for home. It's not long before you tire of the silence and ramble at him about your best friend Bea and how pretty and clever and obnoxious she is with her perfect hair of spun gold and flawless skin and banging body and huge, crystal blue eyes.

“Buut they're not ‘s pretty as _your_ eyes, Benny,” you coo up at him as you lean over the middle console and poke your finger into his cheek. “Benny boo-boo boo boo!”

“So expensive wine is the key to getting you to be nice to me?” he asks with a grin.

You scoff and draw back in offense. “ 'm _always_ nice t’you!”

“I'm pretty sure you've talked to me more in the past 20 minutes than you have all year.”

You try to keep your mind blank. If you even think the truth, you fear the alcohol will make it roll off your tongue.

Ben offers you a hand to help you out of the car and you clutch at his warmth gratefully. He's close enough that you're surrounded by the scent of earthy cologne and clean skin. His hair is silken between your fingers, his muscles firm against your breasts. Even in your heels you have to stand on your tiptoes to keep your lips pressed to his. Your tongue sweeps sloppily across his soft bottom lip and—WHAT. THE. FUCK.

You freeze and open your eyes to stare into Ben's equally shocked expression. You're standing in the upstairs hall just outside of your bedroom, arms around your stepbrother's neck as you hold your body against him. His arms are out at his sides, hands in claws, body stiff, soft mouth glistening with your spit. You blacked out again and the consequences are dire.

Before you can move away, Ben fists a hand in your hair and sucks your lower lip into his mouth. He’s not gentle when he slowly pulls your head back and the pinpricks of pain from your scalp send a thrill through your nerves. Your lip stretches out and then snaps back to your mouth with a wet _smack_ when he releases it from between his teeth. His surprise has changed into something dangerous and you watch his eyes darken as his widening pupils swallow his irises. Your heart is a wild, panicked bird within the cage of your ribs and you don't dare breathe. Ben is breathing heavily as he scans your flushed face and exposed throat.

“Ahhh,” he whispers in a low tone that draws a shiver from you. “My sweet sister is not so innocent as she seems.”

He releases you and steps away, using his thumb to wipe your saliva from his mouth. “Good to know.”

Suddenly sober and entirely embarrassed (also arguably _aroused_ ), you throw yourself backward into your room and slam the door. You flop face-first onto the bed and scream into the sheets.

 _It's actually happened,_ you think as your consciousness starts to fade. _I'm so embarrassed, I'm_ **_literally_ ** _going to die._

 

####  **Saturday**

 

The morning brings disappointment once you realize that you didn't pass away, only passed out. You’re in your original landing position: stomach down, calves dangling over the edge of the bed, heels dangling off your feet, cheek pressed to the sheets in a drying streak of drool. You peel yourself off the bed and stumble into your en-suite to wash off last night's makeup and mistakes.

It's still early, yet your mother seems to be the only one home. In rare form, she looks unkempt with her hair disheveled and traces of eyeliner blurred around her eyes. She's still wearing her sleeping mask on her forehead and it's obvious that there's nothing underneath her silk robe. When you join her at the kitchen island, she hands you a fresh cup of coffee and you smirk into it as you take a sip.

“You sleep okay, mama…?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, just fine,” she smiles dreamily. “Last night was fun, wasn't it?”

“Suuuure,” you snicker. “The boys aren't here?”

“No, they’re at the Memorial Day race—”

_THANK GOD._

“...won't be back until this afternoon. Do you have plans today?”

“Mmm...no. I might see what Bea is up to later.”

“Probably _trouble,_ ” Mama scoffs as she sets out some food for breakfast. “That girl is so strange. I always wondered how you two got on so well. You're so different.”

You hide another secret smile behind your coffee cup. “Yeah, I dunno... I like to think I'm a good influence on her.”

She pats your arm with a smile and a bite of toast. “You are! Graduating Salutatorian, accepted into _two_ prestigious colleges. No boyfriends, no drug abuse. I'm a lucky Mama to have such a good kid.”

“Awww, mama...”

She sounds so proud that you almost feel guilty. _Almost._ One advantage to being the only child to a single parent is that rose-colored glasses hide all of your crimson flaws.

After breakfast, you bound up the stairs and search for your phone.

 _[bb],_ you type.

You should have known the response wouldn't come until hours later. That girl wouldn't wake up for the apocalypse.

> _**Bea:** yes luv _
> 
> _[jeez nvm u took so long to respond i’ve died of old age]_
> 
> _**Bea:** stfu drama queen! don't txt me at the asscrack of dawn on a SATURDAY _
> 
> _[it was 9 am! anyway wyd? i need to get out of here]_
> 
> _**Bea:** y? wat happen _

Oh, how badly you want to tell her. You _need_ to tell her...

 _[nothin much. i just macked on my stepbrother last night and he had a weird reaction that made me soak my panties and the only thing i regret is that i wasn't sober when i did it]_ , you type frantically.

And then immediately delete it. You'll take this shameful secret to the grave.

> _[i’m just bored and i miss you]_
> 
> _**Bea:** such a clingy slut ;) i’ll come get you. let's go shopping for tonight! _
> 
> _[what's tonight?]_
> 
> _**Bea:** chase is throwing a house party. think you can make a jailbreak? _
> 
> _[probs. ma and han are being kinda gross together so maybe he can keep her distracted]_
> 
> _**Bea:** yea i'm pretty distracted when i’m gargling balls too _

Mama asks if you're alright when she hears you scream and throw your phone.

-*-

At the mall, Bea convinces you to buy some super-tight vegan leather pants to match the leather skirt that she plans on wearing to the party. Mama was right about the girl being strange. You decide to humor her even though you'll have to hide them with the rest of your “inappropriate” clothing.

“A hundred-and-forty dollars?”

Ha! For fake leather? Hard pass.

“That's a _steal;_  don't you think, Bea?” you ask with a pointed look.

“Eh? Ohhh! Yeah, definitely,” Bea replies, blue eyes sparkling mischievously as she moves into position.

She squeals apologetically after she knocks over a display wheel of jewelry near the store entrance, drawing the attention of customers and workers alike. She even manages to distract the security guard with her stunt. You're able to quickly remove the security tag with a magnet and slip the pants into your bag, standing in a camera blind spot. After buying a cute sundress to throw off suspicion, you meet Bea at Sephora a few doors down.

Throwing your arm across her shoulders, you whisper into her golden hair, “I don't know why I hang out with you; you're such a bad influence.”

You both devolve into shrill laughter to the annoyance of nearby patrons.

Bea drops you off back home at dinner time with a promise to return around ten. “And wear that green halter top! The satin one!”

“Sure, babe,” you scoff.

Inside, you spot two heads sprouting from the sitting room couch and they both turn to you before you can jet past unseen.

“Hey, kiddo,” the grey one calls out, stopping you in your steps. “We're ordering in. What’re you in the mood for?”

You can't even glance in his direction for fear of meeting the dark eyes of the brunette next to him.

“Uh...Greek? Or whatever you want, papa,” you reply quickly and bound up the stairs to stash away your stolen goods.

It's almost an hour later and you _sense_ him before you see him. Like an animal sensing a devastating storm. You look up from web surfing on your laptop to see said storm of a stepbrother in the doorway, leaning casually as he watches you with a small smile. A smile with no light in it. He's wearing a dark grey Henley that fits _distressingly tight_ over his broad chest and thick arms, and part of you thinks he dresses down a size just to show off that he owns a fucking gym membership.

“Food’s here,” he rumbles. “Greek, just like you asked for, _princess.”_

You decide to ignore him—try to ignore the way that term of endearment drips of sarcasm and makes your womanhood clench around nothing, the drunken kiss, your illicit attraction to him—until he leaves, pretending to be busy. But the giant doesn't leave. His lingering presence fills the air with tension each moment he stands there silently. When you can no longer bear it, you growl and scoot off the bed toward him, your face an angry mask. He subverts your expectations again by continuing to fill up the doorway instead of moving to accommodate you. Your furrowed brow deepens as you invade his personal space.

“Could you move…?” you spit, fists on your hips.

Ben says nothing for a long minute as his honey-eyed gaze drizzles from your face down your body. His gaze is piercing when he meets your eyes again. Your mask cracks and reveals your frightened, raw insides. You just _know_ he can see every thought, every flaw, every harbored secret, every insecurity behind your eyes, and you've never felt so naked while being fully clothed. He opens his mouth to speak and you're so close that you can hear the wet click of saliva as his tongue separates from the roof of his mouth.

“You _always_ get everything you want, don't you?”

You snort at the audacity of this pampered prince, as if he’s ever wanted for anything in his life either.

“That's rich coming from you, _Organa,”_ is your retort as you push past him. Even through your clothes, you can feel his body heat. “You don't know a damn thing about me.”

As you step into the hall, he replies softly, “Oh, I know you, little sister...and I know _exactly_ how to deal with girls like you.”

Your heart trips over its rhythm at his words and you try not to think about how they hold a dark promise.

-*-

The wooden trellis creaks when you put your weight on it, pulling yourself out of the craft room window. You carefully maneuver your heels through the beams as you climb down and angle your face away from the leafy vines so they don't slap your makeup off. You're thankful that the gardener planted ivy instead of thorny roses. Bea’s Cadillac is idling around the corner and you quickly click-clack down the sidewalk, pleather and satin whispering against each other, jewelry tinkling like wind chimes. She appraises you with a slow whistle when you climb in beside her.

“YASSSS, BITCH!”

Bea looks as hot as you feel, wearing a gold sleeveless bodysuit under her leather skirt and fierce eye makeup. You lightly finger her slicked-back and curled ponytail.

“Damn, you're totally channeling 80’s Madonna tonight,” you smile at her approvingly.

 _“When you call my name it's like a little prayer/I'm down on my knees/I wanna take you there,”_ she sings (beautifully, of course) in response. “Hopefully I'll be on _my_ knees within the hour.”

You laugh at her and plug your phone into the speakers, inspired to blast Madonna and sing along terribly as the two of you speed off into the night.

It's almost eleven when you reach the Calrissian residence but the party is still in full swing with boys rough-housing on the lawn and people lounging on the spacious porch. The music is loud, bass thrumming, and Bea is already moving her hips to the beat as you make your way inside. You immediately pull her to the makeshift bar for Jell-O shots to take the edge off. You can't stop thinking about what the hell your dumb stepbrother’s comment was supposed to mean...and why it was making you damp.

A few shots in and you're writhing with Bea on the dance floor, enjoying your buzz and the music. Suddenly, large hands encircle your waist and a hard body presses in behind you. Bea’s well-groomed brows shoot up as she notices your admirer and a smirk pulls across her painted mouth. She winks and merges into the sea of gyrating bodies to give you privacy.

He's warm and feels good against you, and you can't help but smile as he wraps his arms firmly around you. He won't let you turn to face him, so you reach up for him and your fingers meet with a soft, cropped beard. Who do you know with a beard?

Turning his head so that his mouth meets with your ear, the mystery man murmurs, “Darling, I've missed you. How come you never call?”

A pleased hum vibrates in your throat and you relax into his hold. With that _wonderful_ accent, you only need one guess.

“Armie,” you sigh and he finally lets you turn around.

Your eyes lock onto his, the color of clear Caribbean water making you grin with its familiarity. Bea was the one trawling for dick but it looks like you've lucked out first, and with a _perfectly appropriate_ sexual outlet, too.

“This is new,” you say with a scratch of his copper scruff.

He pulls you tighter into him and chuckles, “If you'd bothered _to see me_ in the last six months, it wouldn't be.”

Flustered, you drop your gaze to his chest and roll your lip into your mouth. Last summer, you met him at a party similar to this one when he was visiting from college. Your brief tryst was nice. Armitage was attentive and a little kinky, but you couldn't help thinking about Ben every time you fucked him.

“I'm sorry, Armie. I had to focus on school. I...didn't have time for a boyfriend.”

With his finger under your chin, he pulls your eyes back to his. They are _hungry_ and you can already feel your nipples harden at the sight. He leans in close so his words ghost across your lips, “Who said anything about a boyfriend? I just want a taste, darling…”

His lips against yours are soft yet insistent, and his kiss sets fire to the alcohol in your belly. You moan and pull him closer as he slides his tongue past your teeth in search of yours. He glides his hands down your back and rests them on your ass, breaking the kiss soon after.

“Come with me. I want to show you something,” he says and leads you outside by the hand.

What he wants to show you is his new Bentley. It's all sleek lines and dark colors on the exterior, yet the interior is light like the cream he's lapping up from between your legs. Though you don't care too much about its specs, you appreciate how soft the suede material is against your bare, sweaty back.

Armitage and his tongue are what push you over the edge of bliss, but it's Ben's name that you have to swallow as you come.


	2. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _let me see you dance_  
>  _i love to watch you dance_  
>  _take you down another level_  
>  _get you dancin’ with the devil_

####  **The Sabbath**

His halfway-hazel eyes just won't stay closed tonight. Ben pulls himself out of bed and sits on the window seat that overlooks the backyard with a pen and notebook in hand, hoping that putting his errant thoughts on paper will make sleep come easier. The crescent moon is unusually bright. Quite a few stars are visible this far from the city, looking like pin pricks against the velveteen night sky. Leafy treetops quietly flutter in silvery waves as a nightbreeze rolls by. The pen spins across his knuckles as he fidgets absently, wondering how he can use the scene to end this shitty poem.

Sometimes he writes poems, sometimes he journals, but he _always_ writes things he can't voice to anyone else. There's a darkness surrounding his heart and mind that he fears will consume him if he doesn't unleash it onto blank pages. It helps somewhat.

Movement draws his attention away from the middle distance and he turns his gaze to a shadowy figure approaching the house. His grip on the pen tightens as the figure draws closer. A part in the clouds draws a moonbeam across your familiar features and Ben's eyebrows raise in intrigue. Apparently your after-dinner announcement of going to bed was a _lie._

When you approach the bottom of the trellis, Ben turns off the lamp and slowly moves the curtain so he can watch you from the shadows. Halfway up the trellis, something falls from your hand and you curse softly as your shoe lands in the grass below. You abandon it and continue your ascent. Ben hears the gentle scrape of a window opening in the adjoining room as you sneak into the house and his mouth curls into a smirk. He had always suspected that there was more to the good little schoolgirl persona you projected. The opportunity to catch you in the act is too tempting to pass up. He’s taken a liking to watching how your normally guarded expression pinches in annoyance when he teases you, putting cracks in your carefully constructed façade.

With an agility and silence that contradicts his large mass, Ben drops his current activity and creeps down the hall to your room. He catches you just as you’re closing your room door, curling his large hand around the edge of it to hold it open. He can hear your soft gasp of fear and surprise when he pushes back against the door so he can slip inside the darkened room after you. Ben closes the door behind him and turns towards you. A predatory grin compliments his shining eyes in the gloom.

Your stiffened posture visibly relaxes once you realize the intruder is just your stepbrother. Once fearful eyes slowly narrow in annoyance.

“Ben! _Jesus!_ What th’ hell?” you berate him in a slightly slurred whisper.

Taking in your appearance, he realizes the mistake he made in chasing you in here too late. His eyes travel from your bare, pedicured feet to your shapely legs adorned in practically painted-on leather pants. They follow the curve of your thighs and hips and waist up to the soft weight of your breasts swaying _unbound_ beneath your satin halter top. Memories resurface of how they felt against him during your illicit kiss, memories of your cotton panties under your uniform skirt. He wonders if you could even fit underwear between those tight pants and your skin.

Ben’s mouth waters and he suppresses a groan. The playfulness falls off his face.

The moon highlights the edges of your bared arms and shoulders, and your skin shimmers; you must be wearing some sort of body glitter. His gaze finally reaches your exposed neck and his fingers twitch at the thought of closing a fist around it. Another step closer and he can smell the alcohol on your breath, the sweat on your skin, lingering cigarette smoke, and beneath that...the unmistakable musk of sex.

“...Ben?”

Oh, but Ben is _gone_ now. As he breathes in the myriad scents of you, the black thoughts that he didn’t have a chance to commit to paper overwhelm and devour him. Goosebumps erupt across his flesh. Heat creeps up his neck and pools in his cheeks. His cock stiffens.

He really shouldn't have come in here, but there's no turning back now.

He’s taking too long to answer you, just looming and staring in the darkness, and your fearful expression returns with anxiety.

“Be—”

“You smell like a bar,” He growls quietly. “This is what you do when your mom thinks you're safe in bed? Sneak off and drink and _fuck_ random guys...?”

His eyes flicker to each of yours, searching, waiting for a snarky response, but you’re uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps afraid that your stepbrother is a snitch.

Unfortunately for you, He’s something much worse.

Finally finding your voice, you try to bargain with Him, “Look, ’s a one time thing. My friend invited me and ‘cause ’s a holiday weekend, I thought it’d be okay to sneak out just once. Please don’t rat me out! I don't usually do this...”

He shakes His head and sighs, lowering His eyes to the ground as He mutters, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

“Huh…?” you whisper in confusion, watching Him saunter past you to sit on your bed.

There's a long, tense beat before He responds in a low voice, “You never have to face any consequences for your actions, that’s why you act like an entitled priss. Not this time, sweetheart. Come here.”

Stunned, you don’t move, clutching your purse and remaining shoe to yourself like they’ll protect you, like they can explain what He is thinking. You glance at Him and your tongue darts across your lips nervously. He grips the edge of the mattress in His meaty fists as He stares you down. Your name is like a whip, a sharp crack in the still air as it leaves His mouth and you let out a startled squeak.

“Come. _Here."_

You stutter toward Him, compelled by His commanding tone, and drop your pseudo-protective totems. You stand in front of Him just within arm’s reach and look at your toes, unable to meet His intense gaze.

He takes this time to briefly lose His composure, the rare sight of you being fearful and demure makes Him shudder with delight, His cock twitching in His sweatpants. He reaches out to hook a thick finger in the hem of your pants, eyes flashing at your sharp intake of breath, and pulls you closer.

“Now, I'm not going to—look at me when I'm talking to you.”

Your wide eyes snap to His.

“I'm not going to tell Mama and Papa about this, but you still have to take your licks this time... okay, sweetheart?”

You nod. He regards you with glittering eyes, noticing your quickened breaths and the hardened peaks underneath your thin top. His fingers trail up your right hand and encircle your wrist, a soft sigh breezing through His lips as He feels your pulse thrumming frantically against your skin. He strokes your wrist once or twice before He lets His hand fall away.

“When I ask you a question, you answer ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’. Understand?”

A hard swallow before you answer, “Y-yes, sir.”

He bites back another groan and His half-hard dick pulses. Reaching out, His fingers find your pants again and snap the first button open. He's watching you, hearing how your breath hitches and a shiver trails down your body.

“I'm going to spank you and you're going to count the swats out loud, okay?”

“...yes, sir.”

Your willingness to go along with what's about to happen brings a wicked grin to His face. He slowly pulls down the zipper and slides the pants down your legs, relishing in the feel of your warm skin beneath His hands. When you lay across His lap, He can't hold in His moan at the sight of your bare ass in your thong panties.

“God...My sweet sister, you're a real bad girl, aren't you?” He whispers as He palms your smooth cheeks, making you whimper. “I should add more swats for these slutty panties.”

The sharp slap of His hand across your ass cuts through the air and is followed by your gasping cry. He shushes you as He gently rubs the stinging skin and softly reminds you to count.

“...o-one,” you whimper and grip the sheets.

Another swat, this time on the opposite cheek. “T-two…!”

By the fourth swat, you're biting the bedsheets to keep your cries quiet and He has to resist the urge to bury His fingers in your dripping cunt when He catches the scent of your arousal. He's desperate to hit you harder, but with it being the dead of night He somehow finds the restraint to hold back.

“Eight!”

Both ass cheeks are flushed and stinging before He stops. He presses His large hands to your skin to soothe the burning, trying to ignore how His achingly hard dick is poking into your abdomen. You're sniffling and swallowing wetly, rubbing your tear-streaked face on the bed as He coaxes your tight fists open with gentle fingers.

“Shhh...Shhh. You did so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me. Here, let go. Let go and sit up,” He cooes.

You wipe hot tears from your eyes and He leaves you kneeling on the bed as He goes into your en-suite. Once the door is closed, His eyes squeeze shut and his whole body shudders.

_fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!_

Ben fists his hands in his raven hair as he silently chastises himself, slumping heavily against the door. How could he lose control like that? Normally, he can keep his lustful thoughts of you confined to either his head or his journal, but the events of the weekend thus far have been deleterious to his self-restraint. The electric encounter on the stairs. Your drunken kiss. They opened a door that he fears he cannot go back through. Catching sight of his flushed reflection in the mirror, he scrubs a hand down his face and grips the countertop until his knuckles turn white.

_Breathe. Just breathe, Organa._

_Christ,_ the noises you had made. Crying out, whimpering, moaning and writhing in his lap when he caressed your stinging bottom. He doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his life. He allows himself a small moan as he palms his erection through his pants, but he can't relieve himself just yet. He has to take care of you first.

Splashing cold water on his burning face and neck, he pulls in deep calming breaths. He dries himself and pours a cold glass of water, taking two huge gulps before refilling it. He runs a cloth under warm water and then exits the bathroom to face you again. You're sitting where he left you, chewing on your lip and pressing your thighs together. Ben would love nothing more than to end this session with your cunt pulsing and gushing around his cock, but things have gone too far as it is. He hands you the glass of water and averts his eyes when he sees the undiluted _need_ and vulnerability in yours.

He doesn't see how your brow furrows in hurt and confusion.

You drain half the glass before he takes it from you and sets it on the bedside table. He kneels before you and begins to clean your tear-streaked and makeup-smeared face with the warm cloth. Still avoiding your eyes, his features are slightly twisted in conflict. He squeezes your hand and stands, but not before pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs and turns to leave, tossing the cloth on the table.

You grab his hand tightly. “Wait!”

Ben looks down at you with pinched brows, but no sound emerges from your parted lips. You've lost the nerve to speak your mind.

You hold each other's gaze for a short moment before Ben shifts his eyes elsewhere. He can't hold eye contact when you look at him like that. His resolve is already so fragile. He takes his hand out of your grip.

When he turns to leave this time you don't stop him and door closes after him with a soft click.

 

####  **The Lord's Day**

 

When the sun rises on this day of rest, Ben has already been awake for hours. As he goes about his morning routine, he tries to focus on counting his push-ups and squats—

_He had also counted the number of times his palm met your soft flesh, suppressing his own moans of pleasure every time you whimpered or cried._

—or regulating his breathing while jogging around the neighborhood—

_Just like he had to last night in an attempt to keep his excitement in check so he didn't rip your thong off and lose himself in your velvet insides._

—rather than let his mind wander to how good your warm weight felt across his lap.

He has time to take a cold, cold shower before going downstairs where your mother is getting coffee started, already dressed for the day ahead.

“Good morning, Ben,” she greets him with a small smile.

“Morning,” is his tight response.

He can't make eye contact when the thoughts of what he did to her daughter are still haunting his mind.

She ignores his tense demeanor and puts him to work helping with breakfast. It distracts him from thinking about last night and he's able to somewhat relax by the time you and Han shamble to the kitchen nook like pajama-clad zombies. You both sit heavily in your seats and simultaneously reach for the coffee carafe in the middle of the table. Ben smirks around a mouthful of omelette. Han pours coffee for you first and your mother graciously allows everyone a few minutes of tucking in before she gets down to business.

“So,” she starts. “The itinerary for today is: clean up, shopping, set up, party time! Ben, dear, of course you're excluded—”

“What?! He may be a guest, but that doesn't mean he can't scrub a toilet.” Han threateningly waves a fork at his grown son.

Your mother huffs a laugh. “Han, nobody is scrubbing any toilets but Greta. I've called her in to help out with cleaning. You _are_ going to the store with me, however, since you're on grilling duty.”

Han acquiesces with a grunt and your mother turns to you.

“I noticed your dirty clothes hamper is overflowing. I can get Greta to handle that for you, too.”

Ben notices the panic that flashes in your eyes as you cough around your toast.

“N-no! No, I’ll do them myself. It's fine,” you stammer and swallow.

His eyes narrow in suspicion. Were you hiding something in your laundry?

Mama lets it go and eventually drags Han out to the store, implying that they'll be gone for about an hour. You and Ben go your separate ways, to your separate rooms, without speaking and for a time all is quiet in the big house. Mindlessly scrolling through social media gets tiresome after a while so Ben starts pacing around the room. He can't stop thinking about what happened last night and he feels guilty about wanting to do it again—to feel you under his hands, hear your soft cries, to actually _taste_ you …

Ben groans in frustration, pulling a hand through his thick hair. Why did you go along with his perversions? Why didn't you call him a fucking creep and kick him out of your room? This would be so much easier if you hadn't been so receptive of his advances! Is that why you kept your distance and rebuked all of his attempts at friendship, to keep your attraction to him secret? The realization increases Ben’s anguish ten-fold and forces him to drop heavily onto the bed. That certainly makes things more ~~intriguing~~ complicated. The alcohol from that night must have finally shattered your inhibitions (and morals).

If only you knew how he's been fighting the same battle.

Falling backward onto the mattress, he catches a muffled yell with his large palms. He knows the only way to make this right is to confront you, apologize—something he didn't do last night because he was too keyed up on arousal at your submission—and reset the clock on this whole debacle of a weekend.

An eon of deliberation passes before Ben notices your form slip down the hall, undoubtedly on your way to do your laundry. He whips his shaggy head to the empty doorway as his heart jumps into his throat, but then he steels his nerves and follows your trail after a few minutes. He can hear your preparations in the room under the stairs as he descends them and concentrates on keeping his breathing level. With a short pause outside the half-open door, he gives himself a final word of encouragement and enters the small laundry room.

“Hey, uh…” The first syllable of your name stalls on his tongue as his body forgets how to breathe.

“Oh, Ben! Can you help? I can't reach…”

Your words are way too calm and _deceptively_ innocuous for this absolutely lewd display you're putting on for him. One leg on tiptoe as the other attempts to fold atop the washing machine, both smoothed over in thigh-high socks, back arched so your _—his_ Yavin University?!—tee hikes over the curve of your naked ass. Your arm is outstretched toward fabric softener on the overhead shelf that you very obviously do not need help reaching. Just below one supple cheek, he can see—can just barely make out the folds of your—

Ben's brain short-circuits. The door knob crumples in his grip like paper. All of his earlier decision-making and resolve washes away like so many tears in the rain. He crosses over to you in two large strides, trapping you between His rock solid muscles and the hard, cool machine. His hands roughly encase your hips as He rubs His rapidly swelling groin against your backside.

“You _fucking..._ tease!” He rasps over your low moans. “I came down here to apologize for last night only to find you like this?”

“ _Aah!..._ are you going to spank me again for teasing you, big brother?”

His hands are everywhere—snatching, pulling, gripping your soft skin—and your nails screech across the machine in an attempt to find purchase as you weather His amorous assault. Hands mashing your tits and lips scorching kisses against across your neck bring goosebumps over your skin. As you quiver against Him, His cock pulses with a ferocious need. You smell so sweet, feel so good against Him, that when He realizes that you're still spread open He can't help but dip His fingers into your warm center. Immediately, you throw your head back and cry out as He thrusts two thick fingers inside.

 _Fuck,_ you're already dripping—velvet sex hugging His pumping digits, He can't help but imagine how it would swallow His cock and He doesn't want to imagine, He can't hold back anymore. He pulls His fingers out of you and pops the button on His jeans, the hand on your breast traveling to your neck as you make a small happy sound when you hear His zipper unravel.

“You want me to take you on this fucking washing machine, you little slu—”

Cold fear suddenly drips down His spine, choking off His words and forcing Him to rip Himself away from you. He can hear your surprised gasp as He throws Himself across the hall and into the bathroom. There's barely enough time to gently shut Himself inside before your parents finish swinging open the front door with their grocery store bounty.

Ben growls a curse under his breath and pounds his fist against the sink.

_So close—NO, shut up! You can't fuck your teenage stepsister, Ben!_

But his painfully turgid dick feels otherwise. He has to handle this before he shows himself again. Right as he drops trou’ and takes himself in hand, the gravel-filled voice of his father calls out his name and deflates his erection like a balloon.

The Force is just not with him today.

After washing up, he meets the family in the kitchen where you're helping put away the groceries. You’re not wearing the same clothes that he just saw you in moments ago; these clothes are rumpled and slightly smelly, and it makes Ben smirk to think that you had no choice but to cover up your other outfit with the dirty laundry from the hamper.

-*-

Later, Ben finds himself eating a charred hot dog smothered in condiments as he sits with his uncles Chewie and Lando. The older men are reliving an adventure that Ben has heard too many times already, so he’s zoned out while people-watching the lively party. Neighbors and friends of your parents mill around the backyard, enjoying good food and company in the moderate weather. Han is operating the grill as your mother dictated and said woman is encouraging her boss to try out the bar.

You have yet to make an appearance...but once you do, it causes Ben to freeze mid-bite.

The sundress you're wearing is modest yet form-fitting and you've done something special with your hair for the occasion. You look gorgeous as usual, but that's not why Ben is gaping. There's a bearded man on your arm who returns your smile with his hand possessively draped over your hip. Ben's eye twitches in annoyance.

Tearing into his food again with vehemence, he stalks you and your _guest_ with his eyes, just waiting for the chance to take him aside and grill him like this crispy hot dog. It's not for another fifteen minutes until the man excuses himself from you and heads around the side of the house. Ben wastes no time in stomping after him and catches him trying to light a cigarette.

 _“Hux!”_ Ben hisses and the redhead looks up, his curiosity turning into shock once he recognizes who spoke.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” they accost each other simultaneously.

Ben huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “This is my dad's house. I'm visiting for the weekend.”

 _“Your_ dad's house…?” Hux is incredulous, eyes unfocused as the gears turn in his brain. _“_ Then... _that's_ your stepsister?!”

“Yeah,” Ben growls in confirmation. “And I'm guessing you're the guy she's been fucking.”

Hux has the decency to blush as he ignites the lighter and sets the flame to the end of his cigarette.

“Not that it's any of your business…” he mutters softly.

Ben growls again and kicks up a clump of dirt. He thinks back to what happened earlier in the laundry room and the thought of Hux being able to touch and kiss you like that without restraint makes him...makes him want to…

He watches Hux drag from his addiction. The redhead shuffles awkwardly under his silent scrutiny and a terrible idea suddenly strikes him.

“Hux.” The man's light eyes rise to meet Ben's dark ones. “You remember that weekend after my birthday?”

Hux looks puzzled at first and then suspicious. “...Yes. What about it?”

It's Ben's turn to look embarrassed. “This time, I'll just...just watch. Do this for me and I'll owe you big time, whatever you want—joyrides, essays, cat sitting—”

“You can't _possibly_ be serious?” Hux exclaims, disturbia etched in his pale features.

“...The study is next to the dining room. Meet me there.” Ben sighs as he runs a hand through his hair and mumbles to himself, “Or don't...it might be better if you don't...”

Hux stares after him as he drifts around the corner, thoroughly confused. Surely he wasn't implying that he wanted to…?

“I knew you were a sick fuck, Organa, but this...this is something else.”

Chuckling lowly with a sinister glint in his eye, Hux takes a few more drags from his cigarette before he stamps it out and heads back to the party to fetch you.

-*-

Why Armitage _insisted_ on getting a house tour was beyond your comprehension...until he started kissing on your neck as soon as you were alone inside. He didn't seem interested in heading upstairs to your bedroom and inexplicably guided you toward the study as he groped you. How the hell did he even know where the study was? You allow him to indulge in you, backing you into the room as he grabs a fistful of your bottom.

“Ar- _mie,”_ you whine. “This is a bad idea...my parents…”

“I'll be quick,” he promises huskily, kicking the door shut and locking eyes with the other figure in the room that you have yet to notice.

Of all the places to have this tryst, he chose the room whose back wall is the only thing separating you from the party outside. You'll have to close the curtains and keep quiet—if Armie will let you. Said man continues to grope your ass as he ravishes your neck and pushes you further into the room, pulling your skirt up to expose your cheeks to the cool air. He uses both hands to tenderly massage the mounds of flesh and you're slightly bemused as to why—he normally bestows such attention on your tits.

With a final wet kiss and suckle to your mouth, he spins you around so you're facing the large desk and snakes an arm up your body until he can grasp your neck in his palm. The other hand sneaks into your panties to caress your moistening folds, coaxing sweet moans and sighs out of you. Your eyes have been closed this whole while and when you finally open them, your heart stutters in your chest.

Ben is sitting at the desk, watching silently from the shadowy area between the windows as Armitage feels you up, practically putting you on display for him.

“Oh shit—sorry, Ben. W-we didn't know you were in here— _Armie,_ _stop!”_

You try to struggle out of the redhead's arms, but he's got a firm hold on you and his grip around your neck tightens in warning.

“I don't see anyone, darling. It's just us here,” he purrs. “Just us.”

“What? But...Ben…” you gulp and look at Ben in bewilderment.

He's just sitting in the desk chair, staring in a slightly slouched and relaxed posture. His long legs are spread and his hands are resting on the chairs arms. He still hasn't moved or said anything. The curtains are already drawn on the windows and the lights are off, so the partial shadows in which he sits are obscuring his expression.

You're not entirely sure what's going on or how they even know each other, but it's obvious that these two men have planned...whatever this is. And you might be a little excited to see where it goes.

“Y-you're right. I must be seeing things…” you whisper.

Armitage hums in satisfaction and resumes his expert stroking of your sex, his other hand skating down the skin of your neck to fondle your breast over your dress. You surrender yourself to his ministrations and this perverted scenario, leaning into Armitage but keeping your eyes on Ben as you pull your dress up around your waist. The long, pale fingers in your panties are working you over so well that you can already feel your climax approaching. Your sounds of pleasure grow louder.

You notice that Ben has shifted in his seat and adjusted himself once already, and you wonder if you can excite him enough to pull that glorious cock out. Your eyes gleam at the thought of such an outcome so you turn up the theatrics a notch.

“Armie,” you breathe. “I'm hot, so hot…”

As you writhe sensually in his arms, Armitage loosens his hold to help you pull the dress from your frame, revealing hills and plains of soft skin to your voyeur. Ben shifts again as the redhead thrusts his hands under your lacy bra to tweak your stiff nipples, your moans becoming more exaggerated.

_He's still holding back._

The strong planes of Armitage’s muscles are at your back, hot hands on your most sensitive flesh. You can smell his cologne, his tobacco, feel his arousal and see the bulging outline of Ben's—if only he would _take it out._

You bite your lip and whimper when Armie’s hand travels south again. He rolls your slippery clit between his fingers until you cry out, clutching at his pants as your own legs tremble. You work his belt and pants open and he groans into your ear when you pull his cock free, walking you forward until you're bending over the desk. Suddenly your underthings have been snatched away and you're struggling to maintain eye contact with Ben through the haze of your lust as Armitage pushes himself into your dripping cunt.

“Aah! _Mmmm…”_

Ben's resolve finally begins to crumble. Watching your tits sway according to the whims of Hux’s thrusting hips, he roughly palms his throbbing cock through his jeans as his friend pounds you against the desk. Your keening moans fill the room and his head, letting him know how good he's giving it to you.

You notice Ben is aching for some friction and you want to let him know that it's okay for him to seek his own pleasure, it's okay to finally cross that precipice you both have been inching closer and closer toward.

 _Fall, just fall with me, Ben,_ you plead silently and tempt him with a lazy, lustful smile.

_Please, Ben…_

_“Ben…!”_

And your breathy gasp of his name releases him from the last shackles of morality so he can—finally, _finally_ —join you and Hux in this iniquity of the flesh. His cock is sheathed in his frantically pumping fist while Hux is sheathed in you and both of their voices join yours in an already escalating chorus of wet, slapping skin. The redhead can feel your pussy pulsing around him, can hear your breathing change, so he drops a hand from your hips to your sex and rubs you in a delicious rhythm. The sight of Ben pulling and tugging on his fat cock is too much, the feel of Armitage stretching your insides is too _much—_ something inside pulls and pulls and pulls and _snaps_ , making you release perforated cries and then a long moan as you shudder and gush in a toe-curling orgasm.

Armitage was moaning with you as you came apart around him, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you through your orgasm and chased after his own. He was close now, _so close—_

 _“D-don't_ come inside her,” Ben grits out a husky command.

Hux protests, “But I—nnngh, _fuck—”_

Ben stands and moves around the desk. “Make her kneel.”

Hux pulls you from the desk by your hair and guides you to the floor where you kneel willingly at the feet of the two fully-dressed men, naked and shaking still from the aftershocks of your blissful peak. They pump their leaking cocks in your face and you move their hands away to replace them with your own hands and wet mouth, taking turns joyfully sucking and stroking them. You have them both panting and cursing reverently before long, thrusting into your slick fists as you kneel, waiting with an open mouth, skillfully jerking them to completion.

Ben comes first with your name tumbling from his quivering lips, groaning and hissing. He grips your hair as he looks down at you, watching the wet ropes of his seed shoot across your cheeks and lips and tongue. Hux cries out a curse at the sight and soon he's painting his spend over your face as well, successfully getting most of it in your mouth even though his whole body is trembling.

Their eyes are hazy and barely focused as they watch you swallow it all. They help clean your skin, fingers wiping away the milky residue and pushing it into your mouth. You accept their salty communion with pleased sighs and an eager tongue that swirls and laps at their offered flesh.

-*-

After you've dressed and cleaned up, you rejoin the party and your mother immediately appears at your side.

“My favorite daughter!” she cries, obviously wine-drunk. “Where did you sneak off to? I want you to meet my coworkers.”

Linking her arm through yours, she guides you through the crowd and introduces you to a group of people who you'll forget by tomorrow morning.

“Ah! The Salutatorian,” one man slurs. “You decide what college you're going to yet?”

You tell him that, though it was unintentional, you were very recently _persuaded_ to attend Yavin University.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this second part. I was so... _constipated_ while writing this story, for lack of a better term. There was originally going to be a part for "Monday" but if I didn't finish the story _now_ , I was never going to. It kind of feels like it was meant to end here, anyway...
> 
> Anyway! Thanks for reading! (*^o^*)


End file.
